


Puritanical

by Anonymous



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, F/M, Loss of Virginity, POV Female Character
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-07
Updated: 2020-12-07
Packaged: 2021-03-09 23:08:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,990
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27944333
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: You're a prophet. Danger comes with the territory - you attract much attention from all kinds of supernatural beings due to your moral purity and usefulness. You're putting the Winchesters and their immediate circle in danger. Castiel takes it upon himself to make you less desirable.(Non-con, unrealistic emotions, and general warped content ahead. You have been warned.)
Relationships: Castiel (Supernatural)/You
Kudos: 39
Collections: Anonymous





	Puritanical

**Author's Note:**

> please, i beg you - if any of the warnings on this piece have disturbed you in any way, do not read further. this piece puts false importance on virginity/purity, and obviously does not reflect my views. by continuing, you understand what you're getting into. 
> 
> if this is your bag, i hope you enjoy. i'm taking liberties with canon and defining virgin blood as blood of a virginal person, rather than blood not used in magic before. tread carefully.

There’s vampire blood on your shirt. 

That must be the worst aspect of all of this, you think. Being kidnapped by ragtag idiots with fangs is one thing, but consistently having clothes ruined when the Winchesters come to your aid is another, and you really liked your outfit for today. Prophethood is not all it’s cracked up to be. Yes, you’re grateful for their assistance, but sometimes you just want to go about your business, you know? 

You’d rather not argue the point with them, though. Dean’s nudging a disembodied head aside with his boot, and Sam looks dead on his feet. It will only fray tempers further. 

“You shouldn’t be wandering around without us,” Dean settles with saying, sounding about as exhausted as his brother looks. 

“I went to the store! How was I meant to know some freaks would jump me?” You bite back. 

“You’re meant to know because you’re a prophet, smartass. Course they’re gonna be interested!” 

“They’re vampires! What would vampires even know about me, Dean?” 

It’s a fair point, and he knows it, because he huffs and starts to stride towards the door. It’s a filthy hole, this warehouse – your skin was crawling before it got decorated with entrails. It rates low on the list of places you’ve been stolen away to in the last year. You push yourself up to your feet and dust off your pants, trying not to smear the specks of blood. 

“You okay to walk?” Sam asks. You offer a smile and a nod. “Good. Okay. Let’s go.” 

“I would like a moment alone with her.” 

Castiel. His sudden arrival makes you flinch, but hardly surprises you, at this point; you’re used to him stepping in and out of your life whenever he feels like it. It’s not exactly an opportune moment, though. You want to get back to the bunker and take a damn shower. 

“Can we do this later?” You ask. He steps towards you, regards you with a calm eye, and then shakes his head. 

“It is imperative we talk as soon as possible. Privately.” 

Sam doesn’t need to be told that he isn’t wanted. With a quirked brow (and endless curiosity if you know anything about him), he heads off to catch up with Dean, leaving you with a final promise that they’ll wait up. The metal door closes behind him with a clang that echoes around the vast, empty space. 

Alone with the angel. 

“You are putting the Winchesters, and their wider circle of contacts, at great risk,” Castiel begins. In an instant, you’re scowling. 

"That’s not my fault! I didn’t choose to be a prophet--” You reply. 

“No, you did not, but you must understand the implications of you being one. You are an object of fascination to all and sundry now, and that has its downfalls. Everyone desires you.” 

The sentiment makes you bark out a laugh in raw shock. It’s not something you ever thought you’d hear someone say to you – but your angel is not finding amusement in it. 

“They are desperate to have you because you are so unique. Vampires, they smell your blood and it’s like nothing they’ve ever tried,” Castiel says. His gaze is lowered to the ground. “It drives them wild with desire. Spellcasters want to bottle it for its magical properties.” 

“But why—?” 

“Not only are you a prophet, but you are virgin. Untainted. The power you hold by pure coincidence has every dangerous being within a ten-mile radius tracking you down.” 

The air is cold. You tug your sleeves down over your hands in an attempt to warm your fingers, and glance about you, at the damp grey walls of the warehouse. Trickles of water are hardening into icicles. 

“We need to take action immediately,” The angel begins again. “Removing one desirable aspect will weaken that siren call.” 

“I thought you said you can’t stop me being a prophet,” You say. Castiel looks up and meets your eye - so blue, shockingly blue. “No... but I can stop you being a virgin.” 

He’s on you in a split second. You don’t even see him move - one moment, he is stood apart from you, and the next he is tossing you to the ground and crawling atop you. His strength is immeasurable. You squirm, writhe, push against the solid weight of his chest, but to no avail. Your hands are yanked above your head and pinned there by an invisible force. Castiel observes you beneath him with pity in his eyes, and the enormity of the situation smashes into you all at once. He’s going to rape you. He’s an angel, your holy protector, and he is going to rape you. 

“No, Castiel, please—“ You’re kicking out but he slips between your thighs without incident, tearing at the waistband of your pants. The split he creates along the crotch gives him the access he desires. 

“I take no pleasure in it, but it must be done. Please, try and understand,” Castiel says, and his voice is impossibly calm and measured, even as he yanks your underwear aside. Your most intimate lips pout before him, innocent as a rose. The tears come to you fast, because you can’t stop it, and you can hear his belt unbuckling and you’d do anything to stop him, please, no, Cas— “It’s for your own good.” 

The head of his cock brushes against you. Your stomach rolls, and you lurch against your invisible bondage as utter terror surges through your shuddering body. You feel like you could pass out. The world is spinning, your pulse is hammering in your ears, and then you feel him begin to inch forwards. 

“No!” You scream. Castiel’s warm fingers clench around your jaw to silence your cries as he pushes in, one agonising degree at a time; it burns, the stretch of muscles never disturbed before, and you swear you are going to split in two. It’s horrendous. Whatever you imagined your first time to be, it is nothing compared to the despair of this reality. 

“Shh, now... it’s almost over...” Cas murmurs. After what feels like a lifetime, his pelvis bumps against your ass, and he is fully seated. “There. You’re doing beautifully.” 

You can’t breathe between your sobs. Your legs are being nudged around his waist, and you’re too shocked to put a stop to it. All you can comprehend is this violation, scorching your insides with its own (un)holy fire, shelling you out and tossing you aside. 

He isn’t being that callous, however. Perhaps that is the worst of it. His hands are hideously gentle on your face, uncovering your mouth to instead thumb away your tears as they pour. He looks sorry. How can he have the audacity to be remorseful? 

“Cas, stop,” You wail. “It hurts, it hurts too much, why?” 

“I can’t. I have to see this through... and I’m going to move now.” 

No. No, he can’t, there’s no room, there’s no way you can take it – but Castiel draws back, only to push back in again, sending fresh waves of distress shooting through every nerve. And again. And again. The rhythm he’s setting leaves you no time to adjust, and all you can do is squeeze your eyes shut and pray-- 

But what is the point in that, when your salvation is before you, the root of this evil? 

His strokes are fierce and fast. Like he still doesn’t understand the nuance of lovemaking, or has discarded the knowledge to protect himself from whatever the closest he can muster to human emotion is. God forbid he feel any shame to distract him from his heavenly duties. Whatever bitterness and fury you can muster is swiftly drowned out; nothing can distract you from the physical. Mostly because, to your utter mortification, a new sensation is blossoming. 

It feels good. A tiny spark, at first, barely flickering alongside the pain – but the sure thrusts of his cock inside you make your walls flutter, and you can tell something inside you is stirring, whether you want it to or not. 

“There,” Castiel’s voice, right on cue, strange enough to get you to finally look him in the face. You’ve never heard that tone from him before. It’s the closest thing to lust, to fondness, you’ve ever experienced from him. “Does it feel better?” 

You hiccup, and turn your head to the side once more. You’re ashamed of how your body is responding, how your hips buck up and knock against his, how your cheeks burn with embarrassed heat. One of his hands slips between your bodies, down to where you’re spread open around him... then back up, circling your clit in a delicate but sure movement. 

“Nngh--!” To be stimulated from the inside and the outside at once is new, and more delightful than you would ever care to admit in this situation. Arching into his touch pleases him, it seems, judging by the way he groans and pushes ever closer. 

“Good. Good girl, that’s good,” Cas coos. “You’re doing so well. It will be over soon.” 

Why couldn’t he have penetrated you and called it a day? Why is it drawn out, prolonged as if you are lovers in a semi-public tryst? Why must he make your sobs melt into stammering moans that you struggle to hide from him, even as your pussy clenches with an oncoming orgasm? What is the significance of forcing you to enjoy it? 

You don’t know if you’ll ever get the courage to ask. Maybe it will all spill out in a furious flurry when you are recovered enough to regain your senses. There is nothing, at the moment, other than his grip and his dick and teetering ever closer to the edge. 

“Cas, please,” You whisper, and you don’t know whether you’re asking for a reprieve, or for more. It matters not, because he decides for you, teasing the pads of his fingers over your clit faster. “Oh, oh god, I--” 

“It’s okay. I’ve got you. You can let go.” 

Your whole body seizes up, and you cry out with shock and euphoria at the intensity of the release that hits you. Dimly, you’re aware of smacking your head against the floor when you throw it back, but a dull throb at the back of your skull pales in comparison to your orgasm. You should be ashamed. You know you should feel disgusted, but you don’t have the space, you’ve lost the bandwidth to concern yourself with anything other than what is right in front of you... and what’s right in front of you is Castiel, his hips stuttering as he chases his own completion. 

It isn’t as theatrical as you’d imagined it would be. He pushes deep and grunts when he comes, eyes slipping shut – you thought you would be able to feel it, spilling inside you, but you can’t. Without the soundtrack of your fucking, the warehouse is eerily quiet again. A few moments more, and he’s pulling out, and he tucks himself back into his pants as unceremoniously as possible. 

Somehow, that hurts. Your throat grows tight. 

“Let me see...” You’re utterly mortified when Cas ducks down to stare between your legs, but are too weak to snap them shut or deny his access. Even with his grace no longer holding your wrists down, you can’t muster the energy to push at him. He gingerly swipes a thumb over your hole; when you see the smear of red and white coating it, you feel you might vomit. “It’s done. This will help.” 

If he says so. You shudder beneath his touch when he helps you to your feet and shrugs off his coat to wrap it around you. Is he concerned? Does he care, or is he trying to hide the tear in your clothes, the criminally obvious signal of his barbarism? 

You can’t tell. You don’t want to know.


End file.
